


Playtime

by Donna_Immaculata



Series: Nightshapes [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bath Sex, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Deconstruction, Domestic, Friendship, Intercrural Sex, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Power Play, Recreational Drug Use, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Athos is not doing a good job with this whole talking about things thing. Having an argument would be much easier, but he can’t muster up the energy. It would appear that his approach of drinking away his anger has worked; or perhaps his hangover makes him indifferent. Aramis is much better at this kind of talk, and Athos glares at him to provoke a reaction. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm splitting this instalment in three chapters, because it threatens to become massive.

It is 1:42 am and Athos halfway through his third bottle of wine when his mobile rings. He gropes for it among the debris on the coffee table and pulls the display into focus by blinking rapidly. In the next moment, he throws it back and flops onto the sofa with a groan.

Well. It has only taken Aramis five hours to pick up the courage to call him. He’s probably drunk, too. Athos doesn’t want to talk to him. He _is_ going down that path again, he can’t help it. Just like with Anne all those years ago, it’s a revulsion that is not entirely rational. It isn’t even jealousy, not really. He always knew that Aramis has sex with other people, and it doesn’t bother him, not really. When he thinks about it, which he doesn’t, most of the time he doesn’t, it’s just something that Aramis does. It doesn’t have anything to do with Athos, not really. Whenever he feels a twinge of jealousy, he thinks back to the play party at Ninon’s, of how it made him feel to watch Aramis come apart under another person’s hands.

No, no, he’s not going to think about that. Athos groans, drains his glass and refills it. The rush of alcohol in his blood and his head is a familiar buzz and bubble. He is at that period of intoxication in which vulgar drinkers fall on the floor and go to sleep. Yet, he keeps himself upright and dreams, without sleeping. This somnambulism of drunkenness has something frightful in it.

This is nothing like Anne’s betrayal. Aramis’ betrayal is less; what they have was never meant to be anything more than occasional stress relief. What he had with Anne was meant to be.

Aramis’ betrayal is more. The ceiling spins above his head; it’s twirling in a kaleidoscope of blue and grey shapes and shadows, conjuring up the same underwater sensation he experienced that night when Aramis came to him for the first time. Aramis’ betrayal is more, because it’s not a betrayal on Athos. It is a betrayal not on Athos but on _them_. On their friendship, on the niche that they have carved out for themselves in this world.

Pathos is the last refuse of the drunk. Or something. Athos drinks again and turns his head to stare mindlessly at the television screen. It’s a betrayal on their friendship, a betrayal on Porthos. Athos isn’t worried about himself, his life will go on, such as it is, no matter how much he sometimes wishes for nothingness to engulf him. But Porthos, Porthos, Porthos, he doesn’t have the security that Athos has, he only has himself, and he will be all right, of course he will, Porthos always is, but they are ripping him apart, Aramis and he, and his skin hurts as guilt seeps through his pores.

He doesn’t want to talk to Aramis, not like this. Aramis deserves more than a drunken row. Aramis deserves the full eloquence of his wrath. He’s not jealous, but Aramis fucked fucking Anne of all people, and Anne _matters_. Alcohol gurgles through his veins, and Athos drinks wine and stares at the swirling patterns above his head. 

Aramis didn’t hurt him. Aramis hurt them, even though Porthos doesn’t know it, not yet. Unless Aramis told him tonight. Aramis probably has, Aramis tells Porthos everything.

Aramis never told Porthos about _them_. Porthos figured it out by himself, because it wasn’t important enough to tell. Isn’t important enough. Not important enough to talk to your best friend about.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Bugger.” He mutters and snorts into his glass. Typical. Bloody typical. Even when he’s being foul-mouthed in the privacy of his own home, he’s being foul-mouthed in a polite Hugh Grant slash Oxbridge manner. “Showing my age, I guess,” Athos mutters. The glass slips though his fingers, shadows descend from the ceiling like birds of prey, and their indigo smears trickle down the walls and soak into his mind, morphing into dream images.

When he wakes, his heart is racing, his nose is blocked and his mouth is stuffed with old dishrags. He remains flat on his back, watching the ceiling spin to a halt, and assesses the level of nausea. There is a dull pain somewhere between and above his eyes, like a faint sinusitis. All in all, it’s not bad. He’s certainly had worse, though perhaps not after barely three bottles of wine. Once the room settles, he swings his legs off the edge of the sofa, pulls himself upright and turns off the telly. There’s the tinkle of glass and the wine glass rolls away from his foot. Mercifully, he emptied it before dropping it to the floor.

On the table, his mobile is blinking. Athos picks it up, reaching for the wine bottle with the other hand.

_Come over and help me talk to Porthos. I know you’re furious with me, but don’t let it out on him. He could do with your support. Aramis. PS. Thank you for not telling him._

He hides his face in his hand with a groan. Bloody Aramis. The fucking bastard always knows which buttons to push. He always did. 

He showers, shaves and dresses with fingers that are still a bit shaky, gulps down a litre of water and puts on his sunglasses before leaving the house. He’ll get a coffee on the way.

~*~

Aramis is in the kitchen when Athos arrives, cooking something that smells deliciously of coriander and chilli. He’s wearing an ancient pair of low-riding jeans that make his arse look great and a loose white t-shirt, and Athos rolls his eyes inwardly. Since when has he been noticing what Aramis is wearing? Oh, yeah, since he has got into the habit of undressing Aramis, that’s when. It’s ridiculous.

“Good morning,” he says and chucks his bag on the worktop.

“Morning.” Aramis shoots him a quick glance over his shoulder but doesn’t turn around. “Do you want a coffee?”

“Yeah. Why not.”

“Help yourself. You know where everything is.”

Athos fetches the coffee grinder, the coffee tin and the moka pot and busies himself with them. Something brushes against his leg, and when he looks down he spots the grey tabby who is saying a very enthusiastic hello. He hands the moka pot to Aramis, who puts it on the stove, and picks up the tabby. She butts her head against his chin, purring. He leans against the fridge with one shoulder and watches Aramis, stroking the tabby absentmindedly.

“I take it you’re staying for lunch?” Aramis says.

“What time is it?” He has only been up for an hour, and a vague nausea is still rolling in his stomach. 

“Half past twelve.”

“Rather early for lunch.”

“I woke up with a craving.”

“I see.”

Aramis’ shoulders tense, just so. Athos is sure he only noticed it, because he has learned how to read Aramis’ body. All of a sudden, he is transported back to his own kitchen, to that morning after they had sex for the first time. Aramis was cooking for him then, and Athos stepped over to him and touched him. Aramis’ reaction, the way he went completely still. The soft intake of breath. The way he gripped the worktop just before he came in Athos’ hand, with barely a sound. 

The cat digs her claws into his forearm and the sharp pain slams him back into the present. He shifts self-consciously as arousal uncoils in his abdomen. All it takes is a memory, and it’s so fucking exhausting to be so utterly at the mercy of another person.

“What are we having?” he asks.

“Chicken with noodle salad and honey dip.” Aramis turns away from the oven and pours Athos a coffee, then himself. He looks like always, with messy hair and dark serious eyes, and for a moment is seems that Aramis is going to say something, but he thinks better of it. 

The cat leaps to the floor, and Athos is glad he’s got the coffee mug to hold on to. Last night’s vague sense of revulsion has evaporated without a trace. On the one hand, this is a good thing, because it means that he’s not going to be avoiding Aramis and tear the three of them apart. But it also means that the attraction is still there, rendering him helpless under the force of Aramis’ gaze. Aramis knows, of course he knows; he always does.

“Is Porthos really not okay?” Athos asks. 

Aramis smirks with a corner of his mouth. “What, do you think I’d make that up to lure you to my lair?”

Athos shoots him a sidelong glance without trying to hide his amusement. 

“I don’t lie,” Aramis says. “Not in things that matter.”

“Only to yourself,” Athos says very clearly, but only in his head. “Where’s Porthos?” he asks instead.

“Working. He should be back soon.” He turns his attention back to the stove. “Lay the table, will you?”

The grey tabby weaves around and between his legs as Athos fetches plates and silverware from the cupboards under the window. It’s hot in here, right under the roof; the sun is standing directly above the window, and its light reflects from the dark oak and hurts his eyes. He puts his sunglasses back on and sinks into a chair with a sigh, resigning himself to the purring feline who curls up in his lap like a furry hot water bottle.”

Aramis follows him a short time later and puts down the fully laden tray on the table. It holds bowls with roasted chilli chicken strips, somen noodle salad with coriander, basil and zucchini, and honey-mango dip. “There’s also rice, if you like. I made it mainly for Porthos, because he’s made abundantly clear what he thinks of light summer cuisine, but you can have some.”

“No, that’s fine, thank you,” Athos says and takes the glasses off again. He doesn’t want Aramis to think he’s unwilling to face him. “It’s too hot for a large meal anyway.”

“There’s going to be another thunderstorm later,” Aramis says. “This summer is driving me insane.”

“It’s the continental climate,” Athos says. “Hot summers, with thunderstorms in August. Either that or global warming.”

“Are we really talking about the weather now? How very English.” Aramis smiles.

For some reason, it is this that pushes him over the edge. Athos rounds on Aramis with a force that startles the cat who leaps off his lap and starts washing herself.

“ _I cannot believe you knocked up Anne._ ”

Aramis drops his chopsticks and runs his hand through his hair. He says, without looking at Athos: “You don’t know that. I don’t know that. In fact she doesn’t even know that for sure.”

“Oh superb! Schrödinger’s fatherhood. That’s just brilliant. That’s not going to haunt you for the rest of your life at all.” Athos leans back in his chair and picks up his own chopsticks again. He’s still queasy, and he feels like sharing a meal with Aramis is too much a ritual of peace at this point. On the other hand, it is delicious and he hasn’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours. He picks up a chicken strip, dips it in the honey-mango sauce and points his chopsticks at Aramis. “You didn’t know she was pregnant.”

Aramis shakes his head. “No.” He pokes the noodle salad on his plate.

“She hadn’t told you?”

Aramis shrugs and his gaze shifts away and then back to Athos.

“Nice.” Athos chews slowly on a mouthful of chicken. He’s not doing a good job with this whole talking about things thing. Having an argument would be much easier, but he can’t muster up the energy. It would appear that his approach of drinking away his anger has worked; or perhaps his hangover makes him indifferent. Aramis is much better at this kind of talk, and Athos glares at him to provoke a reaction. 

Aramis takes the hint. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” He sighs and pokes his food again. “I should’ve gone through with the original plan and become a priest.”

Athos actually snorts with laughter. “I’m sorry.” He pulls himself together. “It’s been a while since I heard you say that. It’s like it’s 2009 again. An ecclesiastical career would’ve obviously solved all your problems. How would you have liked making sermons, Mr Wickham?”

Aramis grimaces. “Fancy yourself Lizzie Bennet? Not a chance, my friend.” His gaze darts back to Athos, dark and fathomless. “The church gives you a strict set of rules.”

“And that’s what you want, is it? Rules.”

Aramis falls silent and stares pensively into the distance. “I envy you, you know. You have rules in your head, you don’t need anyone to set you boundaries. I’m all over the place. But then,” he adds with a note of humour. “When I am given rules, I rebel against them, so that’s obviously not the solution, either.”

“I dread to think what kind of rules you’d rebel against had you entered the church.”

Somewhere in the distance, a door slams. Aramis looks around. “Sounds like Porthos is back.”

Athos feels a pang of guilt. They haven’t talked about Porthos at all. “What’s wrong with him?” He asks in an undertone.

Aramis raises his eyebrows. “You want me to brief you now?”

“Be concise. You’ve got ten seconds.”

“Woman trouble,” Aramis says and stands up. The footsteps have come closer and are bursting through the door. There is a moment when time actually stands still, and then the tableau dissolves. Porthos, whose massive frame has filled the door, steps over the threshold.

“All is well!” He booms, spreading his arms wide. “Porthos is here!” 

Aramis is laughing, clapping, “Oh well done!” he calls, walking down the steps, and he reaches out both arms to pull Porthos into a hug. “You look amazing.” He walks around Porthos, trailing his hand over his shoulders. “Nice cloak,” he says, grinning. “And don’t let me start on the tights. They’re positively criminal. Don’t you think?” he turns to Athos. 

Athos is smiling; their joy is real and vibrant, and Porthos does indeed look fantastic. “Are you a hero or a villain? I can’t tell.”

“A deconstruction,” Porthos says, grinning.

Aramis knocks on his breastplate. “Impressive,” he says. “Did Constance do the costume?”

“Who else?” Porthos strides into the kitchen, pulls off cloak and breastplate and chucks them on a shelf. “What’s for lunch?” He peers into the pot.

“The rice is for you, you don’t have to share any of it,” Aramis says, watching Porthos’ back, still grinning. “You should dress up more often, this has really brightened up my day.”

“Aren’t you just the loveliest little housewife.” Porthos picks up the pot with one hand and smacks Aramis on the arse with the other. Their easy physicality, the affection between them – it’s a familiar sight, and it’s never bothered Athos before. Now, though… He watches them across the kitchen, moving around each other in that effortless dance of bodies that are used to being in each other’s space. “I’ve got something for you,” Porthos continues as he and Aramis climb the steps to the table. He glances back over his shoulder and whistles. They hear the floorboards in the corridor creak, there’s the sound of footsteps, and in the next moment, d’Artagnan appears in the door. 

“All right, all right,” he says. “I’m coming. I needed a piss, I was trapped in these bloody things all morning.”

Aramis bursts out laughing again. “You didn’t,” he says to Porthos. “What did you do to the boy?”

“Meet my bumbling sidekick,” Porthos says. “Come here, my plucky little helper, come here!”

“Fuck you,” d’Artagnan says morosely, dragging his feet and tugging off his cloak. “You think you’re so funny.”

“It is funny, d’Artagnan,” Athos says, grinning. 

“Looks lovely, though,” Aramis says. “Come on, darling, don’t be shy.”

“Fuck you too,” d’Artagnan says and flops into a chair. 

“The green is really bringing out the colour of your eyes,” says Athos.

“Yeah, what is it called, May-green?” Aramis says. Porthos is laughing again, ladling rice onto his plate. 

“Frog-green, I think,” Athos says.

“You should reconsider the tights, though,” Aramis says, patting d’Artagnan’s leg. “Your legs are a tiny little bit too skinny for them.”

“Padding,” Athos says. “You can do wonders with padding. The Prince Regent padded his calves all his life.”

“Try the gym,” Aramis says. He is ogling d’Artagnan’s legs shamelessly. “A little workout will do wonders.”

“Do you work out?” d’Artagnan asks him.

“Have you _seen_ his shoulders?” Athos says. Aramis’ head whips round and his eyes light up, and Athos’ heart leaps into his throat.

“So you’re deconstructing the superhero trope now?” Athos says in a level voice.

“Mm,” Porthos hums through a mouthful of chicken and rice. “It’s for Flea’s lot. We wanted to do something lighthearted and fun for a change, and they’re obsessed with Thor and the Avengers and those guys.”

“It could’ve been worse,” Aramis says. “It could’ve been Hobbits.”

“Flea’s lot?” Athos says.

Porthos eyes dart between him and Aramis. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Flea’s lot. Why?”

Aramis raises his eyebrows and returns his gaze unflinchingly.

“Hm,” Porthos grunts. “You’ve been gossiping.”

“Not really,” Athos says. 

“We wanted to, but you came back early,” Aramis says.

“Gossip about what?” d’Artagnan asks.

Athos turns to him and feels a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. He can see from the corner of his eye that Aramis is grinning, too. “D’Artagnan, do me a favour and take off those… horns, or whatever they are,” Athos says. Across the table, Aramis is collapsing into an undignified giggling heap.

“Ha bloody ha,” d’Artagnan mutters, but he takes off the headgear.

“You said you wanted to do what Porthos does,” Athos reminds him gently.

“Yeah, stop whining,” Porthos says. “Flea said you did a great job, they loved you.”

“Yeah, everyone has to start somewhere,” Aramis says. “When I was about your age, a bit older perhaps, the director made us all put gaffer tape on our nipples.”

“He didn’t make us do it. You wanted to do it. You were the first in line,” Porthos says. “That was the first job Aramis and I did together,” he tells d’Artagnan. “A short film for a bloke Aramis knew at uni. We were locked up in that flat for four days-”

“On bread and water,” Athos says in his best funeral voice. Porthos ignores him.

“After a while, everyone started to go a bit mad. The lead was topless most of the time, and at some point somebody had the bright idea to put gaffer tapes on his nipples because they were too distracting.”

“It wasn’t me,” Aramis says quickly.

“No. But it was you who decided to gaffer tape his nipples as an act of solidarity, and before we knew how, everyone was doing it.”

D’Artagnan is looking from one to the other and then to Athos.

“That was before I knew them,” Athos says.

“Ouch!” Porthos bends down and remerges holding the tabby in one hand who is clawing at him playfully. “Careful there, my tights!”

“She wants a treat,” Aramis says.

“I’m not sharing my lunch,” Porthos says. He hands the cat to d’Artagnan. “You take her.”

D’Artagnan dangles a piece of chicken above the tabby’s heads and she chirrups, stretches out a paw and digs one claw into it. “Has she moved in with you now?”

“Nah,” Porthos says. “She’s only here every other day or so. Aramis feeds her fresh meat, she probably doesn’t get that at home.”

“This is delicious, by the way,” d’Artagnan says. “How did you learn to cook like that?”

“He only did it to impress girls,” Porthos says. Aramis tilts his head with a grin, shrugging.

“Speaking of which,” he says, “how are you faring with fair Constance?”

D’Artagnan’s face darkens. “I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes I think she really likes me-”

“She does really like you,” Athos says.

“Yeah, but she’s still with him. With Jacques. And I don’t think she will leave him.”

“No, probably not,” Athos says.

“One thing you’ve got to know, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says. “Relationships get more complicated as you get older, not less. It’s not like when you were at school, when it’s just about two people falling in love and trying to spend as much time together as possible. When you’re an adult, there’s the whole huge thing that comes attached. Jacques is not just Constance’s boyfriend. He’s her business partner as well, they have lived together for just about all of her adult life. You can’t simply throw away years of shared history, of shared life, just because someone else comes along. No matter how fascinating that new person might be.”

“So you’re saying she should stay with him.”

Aramis sighs. “No, d’Artagnan,” he says wearily. “What I’m saying is that there is no easy way to resolve this. The best and kindest thing would be if you removed yourself from the equation. Go away. Distract yourself. Go out, meet people. Meet someone else.”

Porthos makes a sound that is halfway between a snort and a grunt.

“Yeah,” Aramis says. “Sorry.” He squeezes Porthos’ arm.

“I sort of did, actually,” d’Artagnan says. “There was that woman, she came with the Cardinal one day, she works for him.” Athos catches Porthos’ eye and they exchange a grin. It’s rather sweet how d’Artagnan has picked up the nicknames they’ve come up with for their various acquaintances.

“There you go. Did you talk to her? Or did you just admire from afar?”

“We did a bit more than talk,” d’Artagnan says. He shrugs. “We went to that club, and, yeah, she sort of snogged me.”

“Sort of?” Aramis says. “Well. That’s a start.” He catches Porthos’ eye and bites down on his grin. “What’s her name?” 

“I don’t know. She never said.”

“Welcome to Berlin!” Aramis says.

Porthos is shaking his head. 

“What?” Aramis says. “That’s precisely the kind of thing he should be doing, at his age. Go out, get drunk, do drugs, get off with the wrong people in seedy clubs. Get it out of your system so that you don’t feel like you missed out once you’ve grown up and settled down.”

“Like you did, eh?” d’Artagnan says.

“I never settled down,” Aramis says.

“Wouldn’t you sometimes like to?” d’Artagnan asks. “You know, do the whole adult thing. Finding someone. Having kids.”

“I was meaning to ask, Porthos: what happened to your non-profit society plans?” Athos asks into the short fractured moment that’s followed d’Artagnan’s last words. It was only a split second, he doubts anyone but he noticed it. There it is again, the annoyance that tugs at his nerves. He’s become so attuned to Aramis, both physically and emotionally, he almost felt the stab himself, and it irritates him.

Porthos chews his lip. “It’s that whole huge thing,” he says, flashing Aramis a faint grin. “Flea and I have been talking about it for ages. Registering a non-profit society would be a good way to expand the film project with her kids, make it more than just a one-off. It’d make us eligible for tax exemption if we ever made any money.”

“So you said,” Athos nods.

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos says. “But now get this: Flea, Charon and I actually had an interview with that bloke at the tax office. And he says, right, that it’s bullshit that it’s a non-profit business. That we’re just trying to get it registered as one, but then we’re going to produce porn and make tons of money.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” Porthos nods. “That’s what he said. We might’ve been able to explain, but Charon got furious, and we left before he could make matters worse.”

“Probably didn’t make the best impression.”

“Probably not.” Porthos attacks his food viciously. “The bloke saw two black dudes with a woman, what is he supposed to think, eh?”

In the short and rather horrible silence that follows, Aramis reaches out and touches Porthos, presses his palm into the spot where collarbone meets shoulder in a gesture that looks almost like he was holding him up. “Charon didn’t like the idea anyway,” he says calmly.

“And now we never get him to agree to go through with this. We need at least seven people for an official registration.”

“Well, we’re not going to permit it to fail because of a trifling matter such as this,” Athos says. “Aramis and I will join in to make up the numbers, and-” He looks at d’Artagnan, who nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah. I’m in.”

Porthos acknowledges them with a nod, but he continues to look grim. “Charon didn’t like the idea anyway,” he echoes Aramis’ words. “And the more I think about it, the more I think he could be right.”

“Don’t let him discourage you,” Athos says.

“It’s not that…” Porthos is chewing his lip again. “It’s…” he glances at Aramis, “that whole huge thing.”

“Why are you working with him if he’s not interested?” d’Artagnan asks.

“He’s my oldest friend,” Porthos says. “We grew up together, like brothers. And then I left, and I think he's never quite forgiven me.”

“He could’ve left too,” Aramis says.

“Yeah…” Porthos stirs the rice on his plate, staring down blankly. “And then there’s Flea. He never forgave me for Flea, either.”

“Flea and Charon were an item, once,” Aramis tells d’Artagnan.

“But she is supporting you in this,” d’Artagnan says. “I know she is, I saw her.”

“Yeah…” Porthos says again. “She might not…” He leans back in his chair and says, “Alice asked me over to dinner tonight.”

Athos exchanges a knowing glance with Aramis. Alice and Porthos, standing together at the festival, laughing. “I see,” he says, keeping his voice neutral.

“Have you decided yet if you’re going?” Aramis, to whom that information does not come as a surprise and who never judges people anyway, seems entirely unconcerned.

Porthos shrugs. “It’s just a dinner.”

“Yeah, right,” d’Artagnan snorts.

Aramis smirks. “Just a dinner? Even the boy realises what a lot of crap that is.”

D’Artagnan tightens his lips into an unamused grimace. “How long,” he says, “is this going to last? That ‘the boy’ thing?”

“Until you grow up,” Athos says. “Porthos? Surely you’re not going to be that stupid.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Porthos says.

Aramis’ smirk deepens. “Do you really want me to give you a list?”

Athos sends a murderous glare his way, but Aramis has seen worse. “All right,” Aramis continues. “When you go to dinner to her tonight, what do you think will happen?”

“Nothing has to happen,” Porthos says. “Believe it or not, some people are capable of having dinner together without following it up with a fuck.”

Aramis glances at the ceiling, as if praying to God to give him strength, and asks: “What if she offers?”

“She might not,” Porthos says.

“And that’s what’s standing between you and cheating on your girlfriend? ‘She might not’?”

“You know you might have fucked a lot of people, but you don’t actually know much about relationships,” Porthos says.

Aramis shrugs. “Perhaps not. But I know everything about cheating. People do.”

“Do you really think we’re animals unable to restrain ourselves?”

“Not at all,” Aramis says. “It’s just that when put in certain situations, people will behave in a certain way. The trick is not to get in those situations. Or, conversely,” he turns to d’Artagnan with a grin, “manufacture those situations and take advantage of them.”

Porthos is nodding. “Well, I’m very glad you’re here to give us the talk.”

“Do you perhaps also have any advice for Athos?” d’Artagnan says.

“I already told Athos what I think,” Aramis says calmly. “Women tend to like you,” he says, looking him steadily in the eye. “You should let them.”

Porthos snorts into his glass and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘poor man’s agony aunt’. 

“Are you going then?” Athos asks, and adds, without waiting for Porthos’ answer. “You should probably get changed.”

“Actually,” d’Artagnan gets up, “I need to get changed as well. These tights-” he glares at the other three, who are trying to keep a straight face. “I’ll just have a shower if you don’t mind. Got to get rid of the make-up as well.”

“There are fresh towels in the chest in the corridor,” Aramis tells him. “Help yourself to anything you need.”

“So when is he moving in?” Athos asks once d’Artagnan disappears in the shower cubicle and he can be sure that sound of running water will drown out his words.

“We don’t have a spare room,” Porthos says.

“Porthos,” Athos says, “he’ll gladly sleep on the living room sofa. He’ll sleep on a mattress in the corridor if you let him.”

“What, and leave Constance?” Porthos shakes his head.

“She’ll kick him out. And then he’ll turn up on your doorstep.”

Porthos exchanges a look with Aramis, and Aramis shrugs.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Aramis says.

“Are we going to have to adopt him?” Porthos says.

“I think you already have,” Athos says.


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you want to see the rushes, then?” Porthos asks. He comes into the living room freshly showered and dressed and carrying two bottles of beer.

“Sure.” Athos is lounging on the sofa, casually going through the stack of video games on the table.

“Unless you’d rather go back to your mission,” Porthos says. “I know how serious you are about CoD.”

“There’s no point in playing unless you’re playing it right,” Athos says. “Let’s do the rushes. I want to see those tights in action.”

Porthos grins and flops onto the sofa next to Athos. “Right. Prepare for the worst.”

“Unless you’d rather wait for Aramis.”

“Aramis can watch it later.”

“Do you,” Athos asks after a while. “Do you always have to remind him to go?”

Porthos lifts his shoulders in a half-shrug. “You know Aramis. He pretends he’s fine. Until he very much isn’t.” He drinks his beer. “Has he talked to you about it?”

“About his therapy?”

Porthos shakes his head. “About what happened. About Marsac.”

“No.” Athos finds the question rather startling. “I didn’t expect him to. I thought if anything he’d talk to you.”

“No.” Porthos shakes his head again. “As you said, he can be very discreet.”

“Secretive I think is the word,” Athos mutters. 

“He never talks about you, either,” Porthos continues. “You two are still on, yeah?”

“Hm.” Athos stares at the screen where d’Artagnan is running around heroically. “Sort of.” He shifts uncomfortably and wishes he’d left when Aramis did, but he didn’t want to give the impression he was accompanying him. Porthos deserves better than his monosyllables though, and he adds manfully: “It’s more an on-and-off, to be honest. It’s nothing serious.” Nothing to worry about. Aramis’ dark eyes on him as he came and the permanent heat haze that seems to hover between their bodies.

“Yeah, I didn’t expect you two to get married and settle down together,” Porthos says. “Just want to know that you’re okay.”

“You’ll be the first to know if we aren’t,” Athos says and regrets it immediately. Porthos looks at him seriously.

“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

Athos stops pretending he’s watching the footage and turns to face Porthos. “Porthos,” he says. “Whatever happens, Aramis and I will make it out among ourselves. We’ll never let you bear the brunt of our idiocy.”

Porthos nods in acknowledgment, but he doesn’t look convinced. “I really don’t want to say this, Athos, but neither of you is particularly good at relationships,” he says. “Do me a favour and talk to him, yeah? He’s been off kilter ever since that bastard Marsac-” He grits his teeth and continues in a calmer tone. “I just don’t want everything to fester. It’s not healthy. Talk to him, for all our sakes.”

“That’s a fair request,” Athos says. “All right. I’ll talk to him.” His chest constricts at the prospect. Porthos is right, of course, the unsaid things between him and Aramis are not healthy. Once again, he regrets having started this at all. Is the occasional sexual gratification worth the potential fallout? Aramis’ words rise from the depth of his memory: ‘on the other hand, there’s this”, and a shiver runs down his spine, as if someone had brushed the nape of his neck with his lips. 

“Are you going to have dinner with Alice, then?” he asks. He’s desirous to change the subject, but realises that small-talk would be quite out of place. 

Porthos’ expression darkens. “It’s not like that,” he says. “I’m not going to-”

“I know,” Athos says. “If there’s anyone who is incapable of deceit, it’s you.”

“Thanks.” Porthos bites his lip. “It’s just… it’s fun, being with Alice. Flea and I had another row yesterday. We keep arguing,” he says. “Aramis thinks that makes me… susceptible.”

“You’ve been under a lot of pressure,” Athos says. “You’ve been working nonstop, getting the film project finished on time. Now that things have calmed down-”

“Now that things have calmed down, there are a few decisions that I have to make,” Porthos says. “I really want to continue working with Flea, and the kids… and Charon. But I’m not sure if they want to.”

“I assumed Flea was on board? She seemed quite happy with the way it was going.”

“Yeah, but. She wouldn’t mind if it remained a one-off. She thinks there are more important things she should be doing. Charon thinks so too. In fact, he’s never been happy about the whole filmmaking thing. He thinks it’s frivolous and unnecessary.”

Athos nods. He remembers the conversation he had with Charon, and if he’s honest, he can see where Charon is coming from.

“So, yeah. Flea and Charon work together all day every day, and I know that he’s never really let go of her. I can’t blame him. Neither have I. But they spend so much time together and I sometimes don’t see her for days. And if the plan to make the project a permanent fixture falls through, I will see her even less.” He swallows another mouthful of beer and says: “I’m thinking of enrolling at uni, doing a cinematography course. If I don’t get a degree in cinematography, I’ll be stuck in camera assistant jobs for the rest of my life. If I do, it means even less time for Flea, ‘cause I’ll have to keep working as usual. This place is cheap,” he indicates with a sweeping gesture, “but the rent doesn’t pay itself.”

“Look, if money is an issue-” Athos says, but Porthos cuts him short.

“Don’t even think about it. I’m not taking your money,” he says in an almost hostile tone. “Aramis already offered to pay the rent for me. I’m not having any of this. I don’t want your charity.”

“It’s not charity,” Athos says. “I’ll have you pay me back. With interest.”

“The more reason for me to say no,” Porthos says with a faint grin. “I got a lucrative job offer actually, for a travel documentary. There’s this anthropology professor, I met her through Aramis. She and her husband are interested in working with me. I’m qualified for that, travel documentaries are how I started out.”

“Yes,” Athos says slowly, whilst his blood turns to ice water in his veins. “Anthropology professor, you say?”

“Maria Bonnaire,” Porthos says. “Highly respected apparently. Aramis used to have a thing with her, ages ago. Her husband got in touch the other day, asking if I’m interested at all. It’d mean I’d be gone for at least six months though.”

“Have you discussed it with Aramis?” Maria Bonnaire’s ice-clear blue eyes and her knife at Aramis’ throat. How much does Porthos know? Does Aramis share that particular aspect of his life with Porthos? 

“He said that’s okay. If I wanted to go, I should go. He’ll be here, waiting for me,” Porthos grins. “He said he might ask you to move in to keep him company, but I’m sure he was joking.” Porthos’ mobile beeps and he pulls it out and turns off the alarm. “Gotta go,” he says curtly. “Can’t keep the lady waiting.”

“Good luck,” Athos says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Never.” Porthos puts a hand on Athos’ shoulder, and its warmth lingers long after he’s gone. Athos doesn’t want to think what it would mean if Porthos left, but his mind reels and there’s nothing he can do about it. If he goes away, it will be for longer than six months. Athos knows that and he knows that Porthos knows that too. A swirl of panic uncoils when he thinks of the gap Porthos’ absence would leave in their lives. He keeps them together, with his strong, solid presence and his unwavering friendship. Without him, what would become of Aramis and of himself? They’re volatile, both of them, he admits to himself with sudden clarity. Constantly moving at the brink of self-destruction and threatening to spin out of control. Porthos keeps them tethered. Once he’s gone, what will stop them from falling off the edge? The familiar feeling of dread unfurling in the pit of his stomach, Athos picks up the Xbox controller and loses himself in the mission.

~*~

He startles when Aramis appears in the door. “You’re still here,” Aramis says, but he’s smiling and he looks like he’s genuinely happy to see Athos.

“Yeah.” Athos doesn’t smile back. The talk with Porthos has left him on edge, and Aramis… even though last night’s cold fury has evaporated, he can’t let him get away with it.

Aramis appears to read all this in his face. “I need a beer,” he says. “Do you want one?”

“Yeah.” Athos empties the bottle he’s currently drinking, puts it back on the table and leans back in the cushions, thinking. Aramis comes in noiselessly like a cat, walks around the table and sits on the sofa beside him, without touching him. This, too, is irritating. Athos has been hoping Aramis would perhaps try to hug him or kiss him so that he could push him away and have a starting point for the argument. Aramis keeping away of his own accord means that Athos will have to make the first step. He accepts the beer and watches Aramis pull out a wooden box from the shelf under the coffee table, take out the bag of pot and begin to skin up. 

“About last night-” Aramis says.

“It has nothing to do with me,” Athos says. Aramis nods and bends over the table, dedicating himself to rolling the joint like a master artisan may to crafting a magic sword. 

“How can you be so stupid,” Athos says through gritted teeth. “If you don’t care about the consequences for yourself – what about Porthos?”

Aramis turns to him, frowning. “This has nothing to do with Porthos.”

“How can you say that? Don’t you realise that Porthos cares about you? That how you feel matters to him, and that it hurts him when you go out and do stupid things?”

Aramis stares at him, dumbstruck for once, and Athos congratulates himself on his tactics, even though he’s aware that he’s using Porthos to commit emotional blackmail. “And then Anne, of all people.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Aramis is protective of Anne and willing to fight at the mention of her name. “What about Anne?”

“You can’t have her, Aramis. Why do you keep pursuing her?”

“I don’t,” Aramis says. “I didn’t. She-”

“She what? She dragged you out of your room and into her bed?”

“I was outside, smoking. She came to me.”

“And so you _had_ to fuck her.”

“That’s not what it was about. I didn’t-”

“No, because you don’t fuck people, correct? You ‘make love’ to them.”

“Yes,” Aramis says softly. “Yes, I do.”

“And that’s your answer to everything, is it?”

They glare at each other, breathing heavily like two boxers dancing around each other in the ring. The meaning behind Aramis’ words slowly seeps into Athos’ mind, but he doesn’t permit himself to dwell on it. Instead, he attacks again. “And you didn’t even use a condom, by the look of it. Don’t you ever think?” He hold Aramis’ gaze and adds: “Don’t you worry about HIV at all?” he lands a low blow and watches Aramis face change. But Aramis’ self-control is better than people give him credit for. Aramis catches himself – Athos can feel the effort it costs him not to explode with rage – and he says in a tight voice, spitting the words out in a disjointed manner: “It was _Anne_ , Athos. Just because _you_ don’t trust people, don’t expect me to do the same.”

“This is not about me,” Athos says coldly.

“Oh, isn’t it?” Aramis has leaned in very close. “You never before cared with whom I slept.”

“It’s none of my business,” Athos says.

“Why are you so angry then?” Aramis is hovering in his personal space, stabbing through Athos’ defences with his words and his gaze, and Athos almost expects Aramis to kiss him, angrily, like he did that day they argued about Marsac. But Aramis withdraws suddenly and throws himself into the cushions, sprawling on his back. He lights the spliff and takes a deep drag, staring at the ceiling. “Anne is in a committed relationship, and she doesn’t sleep around,” he says quietly and glances up at Athos. “You know she doesn’t. That with me was… a one-off.”

Athos bites down on his frustration and says, dropping words like chips of ice: “Even if that were true – which I don’t necessarily believe – you’re not. Have you never thought you might give her an STI? Or, for that matter, me?”

“So this is what it is all about,” Aramis says with a mirthless laugh and looks away. “I haven’t slept with as many people as you think.”

Athos snorts.

Aramis takes another deep drag, holds the smoke in his lungs, and passes the spliff to Athos, who takes it mechanically. “No, really. It’s not about the fuck, as I think I’ve explained, several times over. I like all the other things more, the excitement, the thrill. The suspense. Learning what turns the other on and getting them off in interesting ways.” He looks up at Athos, keeping him in place with his serious gaze. “That’s what the play parties are all about, in case you were wondering.” He laughs again. “As you might’ve noticed, I don’t even particularly care if I come or not.”

Athos makes sure that his sideways glance clearly conveys ‘bullshit’.

“Oh, I do come, usually. It irritates people if I don’t. A man is expected to orgasm, unless something is wrong, right?”

“Right.” Athos falls silent and falls back into the cushions likewise, in an attempt to remove his face from Aramis’ field of vision. He inhales deeply and focuses on the sensation of smoke swirling into his lungs. “Is that why you. Why me?”

Aramis lifts a corner of his mouth in a not-quite-smile. Athos hands him the spliff and waits patiently. “I was curious,” Aramis says at last. “You’re so-” he looks at Athos from the side, “you know.”

Athos smirks. “And here I was thinking you fancied me.”

“I do fancy you. I fancy a lot of people. But I’m not sure what to do with you sometimes.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He picks up the ashtray from the table and balances it on his stomach. “So we’re good?”

“Yeah.”

Athos is convinced that Porthos would’ve rolled his eyes at him and told him that this hardly qualified as ‘talking to Aramis’. They haven’t come to any conclusions, and he doubts that anything will come out of it. Nothing will change, and yet… Even though he was derailed and hasn’t achieved anything, he feels calmer, and he feels closer to Aramis than he has in days. Still. He should perhaps try again. “We have rather drifted off topic there,” Athos says.

Aramis comes up from his reverie. “Have we? I’d say this was very much the topic we should’ve long broached.”

Athos shakes his head, but he’s grinning helplessly. A wave of affection surges over him; Aramis’ acuity is one of the reasons why he likes him so much, his ability to speak the truth in the nicest possible manner, without being hurtful or insensitive. A skill that Athos has never quite mastered. In his mouth, truth turns into a weapon when he rams words into people like daggers.

He reaches out and takes Aramis’ hand in his, linking his fingers with Aramis’, and he runs his thumb over Aramis’, all the way from joint, over the jut of his knuckle to his nail, and back down. Aramis squeezes his hand.

Athos leans in and kisses Aramis on the temple. “Take me to bed,” he murmurs and watches Aramis’ eyes light up in savage joy.

~*~

For once, Aramis has not lost his shirt on the way to the bed. He’s still fully clothed, lying on his side and facing Athos, and he’s kissing him unhurriedly with his lips rather than his tongue. Athos pushes his knee between Aramis’ legs and Aramis throws one leg over his; they are drifting together, and Athos thinks that Aramis is demonstrating to him how much not about a fuck all this is. It feels like they’ve come full circle and have arrived at the same point where they’d originally started: lying on the bed together and kissing for hours without getting each other off. Aramis is no longer new and unfamiliar, though, and Athos is no longer hesitant. His hand moves from Aramis’ nape, down his shoulders and spine, dips briefly under the hem of his shirt to feel him shiver at the touch, and then back up. He buries his fingers in Aramis’ hair and cradles the back of his head, and he feels Aramis sigh against his lips.

“Have I ever told you,” Aramis whispers, brushing his mouth against Athos’, “how much I like how you kiss?”

“You have, as a matter of fact.” Athos thinks he remembers every single compliment Aramis ever made him. “Have I ever-” he hesitates. He never has, has he? Told Aramis something nice. “Ditto,” he murmurs and deepens the kiss, pushing Aramis’ mouth open with his lips, and he slips his tongue behind his upper lips and sucks gently. He feels Aramis’ lips curve up in a smile, and then his body tenses in Athos’ arms and he’s rolling them over until he comes to rest half atop Athos, rolling his pelvis into him.

Aramis moves to bite tiny kisses along the ridge of Athos’ jaw, all the way up to his ear, and down again. “Mmh,” he hums into the side of Athos’ neck. “Is there anything you’d like to do?”

Athos opens his eyes and looks down, taking in Aramis’ untidy dark hair, his hand that lies flat on Athos’ chest, above his heart; the outline of his own erection under the fabric of his jeans. He wants to do things with Aramis, but whenever Aramis asks what he wants, he can’t think of anything to say. 

“Would you like me to…” Aramis slides his hand down Athos’ chest and stomach, over his hip, and slips it between Athos’ legs without touching his cock. His palm rests against the inside of Athos’ thigh. “Would you like me to sleep with you? I will if that’s what you want. I know that you like that kind of stimulation.”

Athos frowns. “Yes, but you don’t like it.”

“I’m not keen on it, but it’s okay. It won’t be a hardship.”

“Oh good, because that’s what I was hoping for: getting fucked up the arse by a man for whom that’s not a hardship. Do you hear yourself sometimes?” He tightens his grip in Aramis’ hair, yanks his head back until he’s facing him and kisses Aramis on the mouth, hard and vicious. “You’re allowed to be selfish for fuck’s sake.”

Taken by surprise, Aramis makes an odd strangled sound in the back of his throat and his fingers dig into Athos’ shoulder. “Okay,” he gasps. His hand glides from Athos’ thigh to his cock and he’s cupping him and grinding the heel of his hand into Athos, firmly enough to hurt. “Fuck,” Athos throws his head back and grabs Aramis’ wrist. “Not so hard.”

“Sorry.”

This is the first time Aramis did something… not wrong exactly, but something that wasn’t exactly right. Athos kisses him again, delving deep into his mouth with his tongue until they both can barely breathe. “Take your shirt off,” he growls and pushes Aramis back. Aramis raises himself to his knees, blinking, disoriented and utterly dishevelled, and Athos grabs him again even before the shirt has hit the floor. He kicks Aramis’ knee from underneath him, flips him on his back and pins his wrists above his head. Aramis gasps almost soundlessly, a deep intake of breath, as if the air had been knocked out of him. Athos’ head is swimming. There is a primal, a feral joy in manhandling Aramis like this, keeping him in place with his hands and his body. He hooks his legs under Aramis’, grips both his wrists with one hand and reaches into the drawer of the bedside table. When he pulls back, he’s holding the rope.

“Keep still,” he says through clenched teeth and begins to tie Aramis’ hands to the bed. It’s not easy, he has to lift up the futon a bit to reach the bedframe, and Aramis isn’t helping. But he isn’t struggling, either. He’s still and pliant and permits Athos to shift him into the position where he wants him.

Athos binds the rope and tugs once or twice. Aramis is watching him, and his eyes are black with desire. They stare at each other, their both breaths ragged and harsh, and then Aramis arches up with slow deliberation, never taking his eyes off Athos’ face, grinding his cock into Athos. “Keep still,” Athos says again. He lowers his head and tugs at the base of Aramis’ throat with his teeth, where his skin is thin and tender and marred by the scar left there by Maria Bonnaire’s knife five years ago. He feels Aramis’ throat clench as he swallows a groan. “You want boundaries, you say.” Athos dismounts Aramis’ body and gets to his feet, swaying slightly, because his knees are weak and shaky. “Stay there.”

He walks to the door and out, down the steps and into the main corridor, and then into the kitchen. Dusk is falling outside, but he doesn’t turn on the light. He walks to the worktop and selects a knife from the magnetic rack on the wall. Out of the kitchen and back up the steps, and he stops when he reaches the door, tips his head back and takes a deep breath, and then another one, and comes back in.

Aramis turns his head at the sound and his eyes widen. They are glittering in the semi darkness and his lips are slightly parted, and Athos takes in his body, the swell of muscles on his arms which are forced in an unnatural position, the expanse of naked, tan skin, the curve of his bent leg. “Stretch your legs out,” he says. Aramis obeys instantly. “Wider.”

Aramis parts his legs. His hard-on is clearly accentuated under his clothes, and Athos’ own erection, which has subsided on the way to the kitchen and back, twitches in his pants. He cups himself through his trousers to ease the pressure as he walks slowly towards Aramis. Aramis looks at his hand and licks his lips. His gaze shifts to the knife in Athos’ hand and then to Athos’ face.

Athos puts the knife gently on the bedside table, switches on the lamp, kneels beside Aramis and drags his thumb across Aramis’ throat, firmly, with emphasis. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know.”

Athos leans over him. He hovers above Aramis almost out of reach, forcing Aramis to make an effort to kiss him, forcing him to raise himself off the bed. Restrained by the rope as he is, Aramis’ stomach is quivering as he pushes himself into a half-sitting position, scrabbling for purchase where there is none. Athos unbuttons Aramis’ jeans and plunges his hand into Aramis’ briefs. Aramis’ skin is hot and damp, and he arches his hips up best as he can without losing balance. There is a beautiful desperation to this. Athos can feel Aramis’ want; he tastes it on his tongue, feels it in the tremble of Aramis’ muscles, and in the way Aramis’ cock twitches and swells in his fist. He begins to wank him off, but doesn’t touch him otherwise. Just his mouth on Aramis’ and his hand on Aramis’ cock, and he’s rubbing himself through his jeans, rutting into his own hand like a horny teenager, and beneath him, Aramis is gasping out harsh, desperate sounds.

“Please,” he gasps at last, falling back onto the mattress. His chest is heaving like that of a man who has run a marathon, and Athos can see his pulse beat a wild staccato at the base of his throat. Athos slides astride him, braces himself with one hand on Aramis’ clavicle, and reaches for the knife. “Oh fuck,” Aramis whispers, and his whole body shudders and jerks beneath Athos’, sending a thrum of lust through Athos’ body in turn. A tremor runs through him from where his crotch is pressed into the heat of Aramis’ body, to the soles of his feet, and all the way to the top of his head, making his skin tingle all over. 

He grabs Aramis by the hair and pushes the knife into his throat, digging the blunt edge into his skin. Aramis swallows convulsively and tips his head back as far as Athos’ grip permits it. “Athos,” Aramis says in a voice that breaks Athos’ heart. “Athos. Athos.” He can feel Aramis’ legs kick out behind his back as Aramis attempts to gain leverage to push himself up. Athos clenches his teeth and squeezes his legs around Aramis’ hips and thighs, holding him in place with the weight of his body. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he reiterates. Sweat is gathering on his upper lip, along his hairline. He feels a rivulet run down his temple and wipes the side of his face on his shoulder.

“I know,” Aramis pants. “I know that. I trust you.”

“She shouldn't have hurt you, either,” Athos says, and he pushes the knife in harder, watches Aramis’ skin dip under the pressure and Aramis’ eyes widen. Aramis swallows again, working his throat against the cruel metal that keeps him immobilised. His hips are jerking beneath Athos – small, frantic jolts that send electric shocks through them both. Athos lifts the knife abruptly and Aramis moans, and then he flips it over and balances the sharp point on Aramis’ skin. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers and twists the knife, just so.

Aramis chokes out a strangled laugh. “Athos…”

“Tell me to stop.” Athos increases the pressure by a fraction, and Aramis’ skin around the tip of the knife whitens. 

Aramis closes his eyes. “Stop,” he whispers. His tongue flicks out to wet his parted lips.

A sudden headrush sends Athos' mind spinning. Beneath him, between his legs, Aramis is like a hunter that’s been ridden too hard, a mass of tightly wound, quivering muscles as he’s straining against the bonds and against Athos. This is what Aramis let people do to him, five years ago, this and more. Watching his muscles flex and bulge, Athos is once again struck by how powerful Aramis’ body is. Without the rope, he would throw Athos off easily, but the rope is keeping him in place; and so is the knife, its tip still digging into Aramis’ throat. There is a mad power in all this, in the knowledge that Aramis is at his mercy and that, here and now, he could do whatever he liked with him.

Aramis opens his eyes again and locks his gaze with Athos’. The white of his teeth flashes between his parted lips, and Athos’ mind flashes back to the time when he forced that mouth open with his cock and fucked himself into Aramis’ throat, until Aramis choked and gagged, but never asked him to stop.

Athos suddenly lunges forward so that he’s stretched over Aramis, cuts through the ropes that bind his hands and tosses the knife away. Aramis lowers his arms and rubs his wrists, and Athos hangs over him, breathing heavily. 

Aramis draws in a breath that makes his ribs flutter. “Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely.

“I think I like causing pain,” Athos says without making eye contact with Aramis. Aramis reaches out and stabs his nails deep into Athos’ neck and throat. He drags them down all the way to his breastbone, as far down as Athos’ shirt collar will permit, digging long burning welts into Athos’ skin.

“Yeah?” Aramis whispers.

“Real pain, I mean.” He slides off Aramis and stretches out on his back beside him.

“You didn’t.”

“I might’ve.”

“But you didn’t. And I don’t think that you would have.”

“I think I might’ve hurt Anne.” Athos glances at Aramis from the side and looks away quickly.

“Yeah? What makes you think so?”

“She said I hurt her.” He doesn’t know why, what made him say any of this; what made him admit his deepest and darkest fear and guilt. There’s no reason to say this, apart from the fact that Aramis trusted him so. Aramis took a leap of faith, and Athos feels it’s his turn to jump. Now that the worst words are out, it’s easier. “When we split up. We… slept together, and she said I hurt her, and-”

“And?” Aramis prompts gently when Athos doesn’t say anything for a while.

“And I don’t know if I did. I lost control.”

Aramis rolls onto his side and puts an arm around Athos’ chest. “For what it’s worth,” he says with his mouth against Athos’ shoulder. “I don’t believe you’re capable of hurting anyone. Not like that.”

Athos curls his arm around Aramis’ on his chest. “You don’t know that,” he says. “And, frankly, Aramis, I’m not sure you’re the best judge of that. Your pain baseline is not exactly reliable.”

He feels a puff of breath against his shoulder that might have been a snort or a sob. “You underestimate me.” Aramis smiles, Athos can feel his lips curve up against his skin. “Or overestimate me. Misestimate me in any case. I do realise when… when something hurts. I just don’t-” He shrugs. “I know that it will pass.”

“Right.”

“And that I will be fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“You sarcastic twat.” Aramis tightens his arm around Athos’ chest. “Did she hurt you?” he asks in one breath. “I mean I know she did, that’s blindingly obvious, but did she deliberately twist the knife?”

Athos grins at the word choice, but at the same time, something clicks into place. He’s not sure if it’s the hope that he’s never permitted himself to have, or if Aramis, with his uncanny perception, has hit the nail on the head, but he suddenly realises that in all those years it’s never even occurred to him to consider this possibility.

“From what I heard, from the way you talked about her, on the few occasions that you did,” Aramis continues, “I gained the impression that she wasn’t the kind of woman who would meekly leave. She would make sure to leave her mark. Am I right?”

Athos nods cautiously.

“I don’t know what happened, but I know you, Athos,” Aramis continues. “I’ve seen you lose control, on a few occasions.” Athos is very glad that Aramis can’t see his face. “And you are not, you are never violent.”

“I’ve just pressed a knife to your throat,” Athos says, self-loathing rising bitter as bile in the back of his throat.

“I let you,” Aramis says. “And you stopped when I asked you to stop.”

“There was a moment when I thought I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, but you did.” Aramis starts to laugh. “I’m sorry, but this conversation is spiralling into a loop worthy of Vladimir and Estragon themselves.” He lifts his hand and caresses the curve of Athos’ cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “I realise it was complicated and painful, but, Athos, these things always are. That doesn’t make you an irredeemable villain.”

“I never gave her a chance to explain.”

“You can do it now.”

“What?” Athos lifts his head. “Now? After all this time?”

“Why not?” Aramis shrugs. “Drop her an email. Meet up with her. It might help.”

“What, like you did with Marsac?” Athos says, and cold air hits his heated skin as Aramis releases his grip around his chest, rolls away and onto his back. “Sorry,” he says after a short pause. “I didn’t mean- Sorry. Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Aramis says. “It’s not- I’m not- All I’m saying is it might help. It might not, but you won’t know that until you’ll try.”

Athos sighs, and wraps his fingers around Aramis’ forearm. “Yeah, perhaps.” His head is spinning, but the tight knot behind his solar plexus has loosened. Something else occurs to him suddenly. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not.” Aramis turns his head and finds Athos’ mouth. He tastes of smoke and beer, and his lips are very dry. Athos curls his hand around the back of his head and pulls him close for another, longer, kiss. “I want you to be happy,” Aramis says. “Truly, I do.”

“Thank you,” Athos cups his face and strokes the sharp edge of his cheekbone with his thumb. “Ditto.”

Aramis’ eyes light up, he can see that even in the dim light. “I know,” Aramis says.

“Are you?” Athos whispers a while later, in between deep kisses, “happy? About this?”

Aramis raises his head and appears to consider the question seriously. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “I really am. I never expected this,” he gestures at their bodies as they lie entwined beside and atop each other. “Which makes for a nice change, because I’m usually spot-on with my estimation on what to expect. You surprised me.” He kisses Athos again, tangling his fingers in his hair.

“And you don’t mind me being-?”

“I like a challenge,” Aramis says cheerfully. “And you,” he kisses the spot where jaw meets ear, and Athos’ shivers, “are certainly worth the effort.”

Athos groans, wraps both arms around Aramis and rolls them both, and he kisses a path from Aramis’ ear down to his throat, lapping with his tongue at the spot that he hurt before. Aramis arches into him, and Athos bites down on the ridge of his collarbone. “What do you want?” he asks. “And don’t tell me ‘everything’. Tell me what you’d like me to do.”

“I like it when you go down on me,” Aramis says breathlessly. “Will you?”

Athos kisses him again. His mouth is feeling raw already, and he’s sure his lips will be dry and chapped tomorrow. For some reason, he can’t get enough of kissing Aramis tonight. It is not just because of purely carnal pleasure; it’s also because of the sheer joy and relief that have been coursing through him ever since he realised that, despite of being furious with Aramis, he wasn’t overcome by that physical revulsion that would make him run away from Aramis. From this. 

The taste of Aramis’ cock on his tongue, that blend of sweat and come and skin, shoots straight to his head. The way Aramis spreads his legs for him; the way his knuckles whiten when his hand clenches in the bed sheets; the way his skin ripples when Athos drags his nails along the inside of his thigh and across his abdomen. Athos lifts his mouth off Aramis’ cock, blows a cool breath across his stomach and watches it flutter. Aramis’ hips jolt upwards, and Athos licks a long stripe from the base of his cock to the tip and sucks him back in. “Fuck,” Aramis mutters, groping blindly for Athos’ hand. “You’re so good at this.”

Athos hums around his cock and laces his fingers through Aramis’. It’s amazing how much of a turn-on this is. He’d love to touch himself, but both his hands are occupied, and he squirms uncomfortably seeking friction. Aramis opens his eyes and looks down at him. “All right?” he whispers. Then, he shifts his leg and moves it between Athos’ thighs. Athos shudders and ruts against his shin shamelessly, and Aramis falls back into the pillows with a gasp. 

Aramis is so quiet tonight, even more so than usual. Or perhaps Athos can’t hear him through the rush of blood in his ears. His senses have narrowed, and he can’t take in anything but Aramis, the taste of him and the scent of him as he tumbles towards his orgasm in Athos’ mouth. When he opens his eyes, he sees his own hand, wet with spit, as it moves up and down Aramis’ cock, guiding it into his mouth. He slides his hand all the way down to the base, keeps still until he hears Aramis whimper, and then licks across the velvety tip with the flat of his tongue. His other hand is trapped in Aramis’, who’s clinging to it with a force that makes Athos’ fingers hurt where Aramis squeezes them together. 

Athos takes a deep breath and sucks Aramis all the way in.

There’s such beauty to the agony in which Aramis hovers momentarily, just before his orgasm hits him. Athos pulls back to watch him, the sinuous curve of his body as he comes up from the mattress, the mouth open in a soundless gasp; his cock throbbing in Athos’ fist and spurting come all over Athos’ hand and Aramis’ stomach. Athos waits for Aramis to draw a deep, calming breath. He then lets go of his cock and drags his hand through the puddle glistening in the hairs on Aramis’ belly, smearing his come across his skin. Aramis huffs in amusement.

“Turn over.” Athos raises himself from his crouching position and balances above Aramis on his arms and knees. Aramis opens his eyes. “Please,” Athos adds.

Aramis smiles and rolls onto his front, and Athos stretches out on his back and buries his face in the nape of Aramis’ neck. Aramis groans, pushing back into him. His skin is damp and sticky and his hair tickles Athos’ nose, and it’s just so good, to feel him like that, their bodies glued together from top to toe. Athos pushes Aramis’ legs apart with his knee and slides his cock between his thighs.

“You want-” Aramis says, and his voice is low and rough. “Lube?” His hand is already fumbling in the drawer. Athos takes the bottle from him and watches the lube run down the insides of Aramis’ thighs, into the crack of his arse. He massages it in with firm strokes, trailing his nails over the swell of Aramis’ arse, all the way down to his balls, and slips his hand underneath him to grab his cock. Aramis’ hand clenches and relaxes again, and Athos reaches out and covers it with his. 

“I need you to-” he says, lets go to Aramis’ cock and splays his hand over Aramis’ chest, shifting him into a better position. “Like this.” He reaches around again and cups Aramis’ cock loosely. “Push back into me,” he breathes in his ear. 

Aramis is panting into the pillow in time with the shove of Athos’ hips as he fucks himself between Aramis’ thighs. The angle is a bit awkward, because he has to keep his arm wrapped around Aramis and give him enough space to grind himself into Athos’ hand. It feels right, though, the heat and friction between them, and the scent of Aramis’ hair and skin is clogging his senses. Aramis isn’t loud, he never is, but the jagged sounds that he makes go straight to Athos’ heart. And then, Aramis’ hand alights on Athos’, guiding it away from his cock, up his body to his mouth, and he kisses Athos’ palm. 

“Good?” Athos whispers in his ear.

“Yes.” Aramis gasps and pushes back, trapping Athos’ cock between his thighs. They shift again, grappling for better leverage, and then Athos slams into him with the wet sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Aramis groans and his head falls forward, and Athos bites down, hard, on the straining muscle where shoulder meets neck. Aramis cries out and bucks in Athos’ grip, his body slippery with sweat and taut almost beyond endurance. For a moment, Athos’ hands slip on his slick skin and he grapples for a firmer grip. And then the friction becomes too much, his head spins, and he’s coming between the flexing muscles of Aramis’ thighs. Aramis makes a sound in the back of his throat, and tilts his head back onto Athos’ shoulder. “So good.” He dips his hand between his legs. It’s wet and glistens when he brings it back up, and he reaches back and shoves his fingers into Athos’ mouth. “You taste so good,” Aramis pants, withdraws his fingers from between Athos’ lips and sucks them in. “Bite me again.”

Athos sinks his teeth into Aramis’ shoulder. “Harder,” Aramis whispers. 

Athos groans. His head is swimming and his senses are overloaded, when his hand skims down Aramis’ body, it brushes against his cock. Incredibly, he’s half-hard again. Athos wraps his fingers around him and feels him throb to full hardness in his hand. “Can you come again?” he mouthes damply against Aramis’ cheekbone, hoping, very much, that the answer is yes. He needs Aramis to come, he needs to feel him come apart in his arms. He doesn’t even care that his wrist begins to throb with a dull ache after a while and that the hand around Aramis’ cock is getting numb. Aramis needs something, he’s not sure what, and acting on blind instinct, he shoves his other arm under Aramis’ neck and hooks it tightly around his throat, forcing Aramis’ head back. Aramis chokes, his body tenses, muscles taut like bowstrings, and he comes in Athos’ hand in one endless gush.

They fall asleep almost instantly. Aramis mutters something into the palm of Athos’ hand, rubbing his face into it like a cat, but Athos can’t distinguish any words. There’s only warmth, Aramis’ breath on his skin, and then Aramis’ takes his hand in his and threads his fingers through Athos', and that’s the last thing he knows. 

When he wakes up, their fingers are still interlinked. Athos’ hand is numb and his fingertips prickle. Aramis is plastered against his chest. His entire back is glued to Athos, and his breathing is deep and slow. Athos wriggles his fingers to get the circulation going, but the sharp sting of pins and needles causes him to reconsider. He resigns himself to his fate and keeps still. His mouth is rubbed raw and hurts, his skin itches and Aramis in his arms generates approximately as much heat as a medium-range industrial furnace.

Athos lifts his free hand from where it dangles loosely over Aramis’ hip and touches Aramis’ hair. Aramis doesn’t stir, let alone wake, and Athos smoothes the tangled strands back from Aramis’ face. He should be exhausted, he knows; last night’s drunken sleep was not exactly refreshing. And yet, he is wide awake, and not in the bad, angst-ridden, 3am way. He strokes Aramis’ hair with his fingertips, and lets himself sink into the sensation until he’s suspended in the dreamlike state that precedes sleep. His last thought before dream images claim his subconscious is, fuck I didn’t set the alarm.


	3. Chapter 3

His hand in Aramis’ hair, clutching blindly even before he’s fully aware what is happening, and a groan rising up his throat, and Athos blinks his eyes open and stares into darkness. “Wha-” he chokes and looks down on himself. He can only just make out Aramis as a hulking shape between his legs.

“You woke me up,” Aramis mumbles, “poking me...”

Athos tightens his grip in Aramis’ hair and swallows around a too-dry tongue. “My apologies,” he says in as steady a voice as possible. “It’s an involuntary physiological reaction.”

Aramis huffs a breath of air over his groin. “I’m not complaining,” he says, and laughter vibrates in his voice with every word. “I like-” he licks a path down Athos’ cock with the flat of his tongue, “how you react to this. To me.” In the next moment, Athos finds himself engulfed in the heat of Aramis’ mouth, buried all the way in, and he feels the beat of his own pulse as it throbs against the pressure of Aramis’ tongue. Aramis holds him in place with his hands around his hips, and he sucks him very gently, barely moving his head.

Athos groans. His bones and muscles are languid with sleep, and his mind has not as yet fully caught up with what is going on around him. His thoughts swirl lethargically, like fog. The only tangible thing in this blurred, unfocused world is the sensation between his legs. Aramis shifts and pushes against Athos’ thigh, motioning his legs further apart, and his hands glide down from his hips and underneath Athos. He lifts him up and shoves a pillow under his arse. And then his hands are everywhere, roving before, behind, between, above, below, with touches that are light and firm at the same time. Fingertips ghost over his nipples and then up to his lips, and Aramis dips them into his mouth. Athos sucks in his finger and tastes himself on Aramis’ skin. Aramis’ mouth around his cock tightens and then withdraws. 

“You taste so good,” Aramis whispers against the tip of his cock. He sucks Athos back in between barely-parted lips. Athos’ hips jerk up and his cock thrusts into the roof of Aramis’ mouth. Aramis chokes, pulls back slightly, lays his forearm across Athos’ abdomen and shifts his weight. “Keep still,” Aramis says. “Don’t fuck my mouth until I tell you to.”

“ _Fuck_!” Athos spits out breathlessly. Aramis’ weight on him, from his hip, over his pubic bone, to the other hip, keeps him immobilised. Aramis is always so fucking casual about it, as if sucking another man’s cock was nothing. The moment he lowers his head again, Athos buries both hands in his hair and pushes him down. All the way down, he doesn’t stop until Aramis’ face is pressed into the crease between his hip and thigh. Athos can feel him breathing through his nose, fast and frantic. And then, Aramis hums and his mouth tightens again, and the unhurried, relentless suction makes Athos’ head spin.

Aramis releases him again, and Athos gulps in mouthfuls of air. “Good?” Aramis asks. “Do you want more?”

“Yeah.” He lets go of Aramis’ hair with one hand and curls his fingers around the arm that keeps him in place. “Go on.”

He can feel Aramis smirk, and then the heat of his mouth is back, and it’s the slowness of the act, the measured, controlled pressure that renders him dizzy. It feels like Aramis could keep this up for hours, sucking him steadily. All of a sudden, Aramis does something with his tongue, and Athos’ leg kicks out.

Without lifting the pressure off his cock, Aramis slips astride his leg. “Fuck!” Athos groans again. Aramis’ cock digs into his thigh, damp with arousal and impossibly hard. 

Aramis shifts his weight again until Athos can feel his own hipbones bore into Aramis’ arm, and he wraps his free hand around Athos’ cock. He slides it up and down in time with the motion of his mouth. When he withdraws to lick the tip, the hairs on Athos’ stomach and thighs stand up as though electrified. 

“Will you come from this,” Aramis asks gently. “Or do you need something more?”

“No,” Athos shakes his head and slides his hand from Aramis’ hair, down his temple and cheek and curls his fingers around Aramis’. He guides his cock back into Aramis’ mouth. “Just this.”

His orgasm is just as unhurried; a slow, inexorable build-up in his groin and in his head, behind his eyes. Once it erupts, his body slips away from him, and it seems to go on forever, an unending sequence of long shuddering bursts of intense pleasure. He comes in Aramis’ mouth, over their joint hands and on his stomach. Aramis slithers atop him and kisses him, lathering Athos’ tongue with his own come. 

“Stay there,” Aramis mutters. “I want to come on you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Athos shifts beneath him and wraps a hand around the nape of Aramis’ neck. It’s too dark to make out the motion of Aramis’ hand as he’s wanking himself off above Athos, pushing his cock against Athos’ stomach with every thrust of his hips. His head falls forward and his breath is hot on Athos’ neck, his collarbone. Athos pulls in his legs, bracing Aramis between his knees, whispering things in his ear that he will not remember tomorrow, and he listens to the choked moans torn from Aramis’ chest by his impeding orgasm. His stomach tenses when Aramis comes on him with a groan that he buries in Athos’ skin.

Athos strokes over the curve of his shoulder and down his shoulderblades and pulls him close. “Stay here,” he mutters, groping with his other hand on the floor for his mobile.

“What-” Aramis raises his head, but Athos tightens his grip around his shoulders. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’ve got to set the alarm.”

Aramis snorts and relaxes into Athos. “Always so level-headed,” he mutters. “Isn’t that rather exhausting?”

“I’m meeting Treville first thing tomorrow,” Athos says, ignoring the sting. “And thanks to you I will have to have a shower before I can leave the house.”

“Thanks to me?” Aramis rubs his mouth against Athos’ neck and the scratch of his beard makes him shiver. “If I recall correctly, it was your idea to go to bed.”

“You’re right.” Athos is setting the alarm, squinting at the too-bright display. “I forgot. But if I hadn’t suggested it, you would’ve.”

“Of course I would have,” Aramis agrees. “But you did.”

~*~

Despite having spent half an hour scrubbing himself clean in the shower, the smell of sex clings to him still. Athos is convinced that everyone can smell it on his skin. He certainly can. He spent the meeting with Treville in a daze, forcing himself to function even though his mind and his senses kept slipping away from him the moment he permitted himself to lose focus. He’s exhausted when he leaves the office; too many opinions, too many voices, and he’s been surrounded by people nonstop for what feels like weeks. He has to go home, lock himself up and wait for solitude to work its soothing magic.

He’s on his way out when he catches movement from the corner of his eye. Anne has just disappeared through a door down the corridor, and Athos hesitates for barely a fraction of a second before following her. He closes the door quietly behind himself.

“Hey,” Anne smiles at him. She looks the same as always, delicate and haughty at the same time, and he tries for a moment to see what Aramis sees in her. Anne isn’t that much younger than him, but she appears a child in his eyes, desperate to prove that she’s not just a spoiled daddy’s girl and, as he believes, failing. That might be partly due to Louis, however, whose adolescent tantrums rub off on her. Living with a man like Louis, she must have acquired survival strategies that involve a lot of sneaky manipulation. He doesn’t blame her for them, that’s how everybody handles Louis. But she has crossed a line.

“Anne,” he says calmly. “Congratulations again. You must be overjoyed.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, and she crosses both hands over her belly. “Thank you, Athos,” she says. “It means a lot.”

“I can imagine,” he says. “Becoming a parent is a huge step. The most important decision of your life, isn’t it?”

Her expression flickers momentarily, and Athos virtually feels her pull herself together and up, drawing the mantle of aloofness around herself. The little princess act doesn’t bother him. It’s the same trick Cousin Penelope always used, and he could see through her ever since he was six years old.

“Shame you didn’t give Aramis the chance to make that decision also.”

I don’t know what you mean. He sees the words form, but she catches them before they reach her lips. Anne is not stupid, she knows that her efforts would be wasted on him.

“What did he tell you?” she asks instead.

“Nothing,” Athos says. He leans against the wall with one shoulder and puts his hands in his pockets. “Believe it or not, Aramis doesn’t talk. I figured it out.”

“You figured out wrong, then,” she says. “I’m pretty sure it’s not his.”

“Good.” Athos measures her levelly. “Tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That it’s not his.”

“But…” It’s the first sign of uncertainty. “I don’t know for sure.”

“Then make sure.”

“And if it turns out to be his?”

“Lie.”

The word rings in the silence, it reverberates from the walls and Anne flinches as she’s being pelted by its echoes. Her composure breaks, for once, and her eyes are suddenly overbright with not-quite-tears. “Don’t you think that’s rather cruel?” she says in the small voice of an ill child.

“More cruel than what you did?” Athos is unmoved by the sudden display of vulnerability. Unlike Aramis, he doesn’t feel protective of women who use ostensible weakness to get their way. If Anne truly were that fragile girl whose persona she adopts, he would feel sympathetic. But he knows her to be tough and sharp, and there is a primal pleasure in the knowledge that he can hit her where it hurts. 

Anne appears to sense it. She wipes her eyes and faces him squarely. “He wouldn’t want to be a father anyway.”

“I agree,” Athos says. “But he doesn’t know that. And I am not going to stand by and watch him wonder and doubt for the rest of his life.”

Anne smiles a watery little smile. “I didn’t think he’d…” she says, and Athos can hear tears well up again. “I thought he wouldn’t care.”

“Oh, he cares,” Athos says. “He cares for you.”

She makes a sound that’s almost a sob. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to- He seems so- like nothing ever touches him.”

Athos doesn’t say anything, because she _is_ right, and also because he wants to give the silence room to spread, to weigh down on her until she crumbles. Aramis’ charm and beauty are a curse as much as a blessing, he knows that now. But Anne has never had the chance to learn this particular lesson. She never made the effort, either. 

Just as he’s anticipated, she gives in at last. “I know he’s your friend-” she says in a voice that is clogged with tears.

“He’s more than that,” Athos says, calmly, over the pounding of his heart.

Anne stares at him, stunned. “I didn’t know-” she says.

“No. Nobody does.” He pushes himself off the wall. “I’ve only told you so that you know that if you abuse the power you have over him, you’re up against me.”

~*~

The moment he steps outside, he puts on his sunglasses, takes a deep breath and goes shopping.

He comes back home exhausted, covered in sweat and done with the world and all its people. His t-shirt is clinging to his back, and he tugs it off even before the door closes behind him. He pulls off his jeans, throws everything into the bathroom in passing, and collapses on the sofa with a bottle of cold water in his hand. Coming home is like stepping into the green shade of a forest clearing, and he can breathe again. He takes his laptop out of his bag, opens Final Cut, puts on his headphones and immerses himself in images.

By the time the afternoon sun moves past his living room window, his mood has improved and the thought of encountering members of the human race again one day does no longer positively repulse him. By the time dusk falls, he relaxes into the sofa and looks up at the ceiling. He’s craving a glass of cool white wine, but he can’t be bothered to get up and go to the kitchen. Instead, he picks up his mobile, stares at it for a minute and types: _If you like to, come over tonight._

He exhales sharply and gets up, but the ring tone stops him in his steps. Athos’ heart leaps even before he reads the text.

_Give me an hour._

The wine is cool and moss-green in his mouth, and he focuses so hard on his work that he almost misses the next text message. _Have you eaten? I could pick up sushi on the way._

It’s raining again by the time the doorbell rings. The rain has flushed out the heat pockets trapped between the houses; the air is chilly and carries the smell of autumn. Aramis was right, this summer can drive one insane. Athos had opened the windows wide to let in a breeze, but had to close them again because the wind kept driving rainwater and debris into his flat. The light flickers, and he unplugs TV and computer from their sockets.

“Do you think it’s the apocalypse yet?” Aramis stands in the door, dripping water from hair and clothes. He’s carrying a plastic bag. “Dinner’s here.”

“No idea. That’s your area,” Athos says. He takes the bag from Aramis and watches him peel off his drenched trainers.

“I ruined my shoes,” Aramis says. “I’ll have to borrow a pair of yours tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t have gone skipping through puddles.”

Aramis flashes him a broad smile. “That would’ve been the sensible thing to do.”

“Get yourself a towel,” Athos says, shaking his head and smiling fondly. He fetches the wine from the fridge and a glass for Aramis and walks through to the living room. Aramis is standing by the window, watching the treetops being whipped to and fro by the wind, outlined starkly against the lightning-strewn sky. The light flickers again, and Athos reaches for the switch reflexively and turns it off.

“Do you have any candles?” Aramis asks.

“There’s tea lights.”

“I’ll fetch them.” When he walks past him, Aramis brushes Athos’ hand with his fingertips. His hand is cold after his long walk in the rain.

“I got you something,” Athos says carelessly once Aramis comes back in. He looks Aramis up and down as he’s lighting the candles. “I should’ve got you an umbrella.”

“A present?” Aramis picks up the plastic bag from the table and presses his hand to his chest. “You shouldn’t have.”

His heart beating madly, Athos watches Aramis’ face as he opens the bag and looks inside. Aramis lifts his head, his expression unreadable, and he steps over the edge of the sofa and pulls Athos into a hug. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Seeing as I cut through yours, it’s only fair I buy you a new one.” Athos takes the rope from Aramis’ unresisting fingers and chucks it on the sofa. His hand snags in the wet fabric of Aramis’ shirt as he runs it up Aramis’ spine and then down and stops by the waistband of his jeans.

“Do you want to use it?” Aramis asks with his lips against Athos’ neck.

“Hm…”

“We used it before.”

“I know.” To considerable effect. Goosebumps rise on his neck and forearms, and he pulls himself away and puts a hand on Aramis’ chest. “Another time. Right now, you’ve got to get rid of these wet clothes. You’re cold.”

“Yeah,” Aramis looks down on himself. “I didn’t want to take them off the moment I came in, you know.

“That’s uncommonly modest of you.”

Aramis smirks and peels off his soaked shirt. He stands within a breath’s distance to Athos, illuminated by lightning that flashes outside the window every few minutes. The storm is now roaring directly above their heads. The blackness of Aramis’ hair and eyes absorbs all light, and shadows pool into the hollows under his cheekbones. Not for the first time, Athos senses a darkness in Aramis that is fathomless and Mephistophelian. He balances on the edge of an abyss, they both are, and the temptation to give in to its lure is overpowering him.

“Are you going to lend me any dry clothes?” Aramis’ words bring him crashing down, back to prosaic concerns. “Or am I being sent to bed without my dinner?” he says with a teasing half-smile.

“Not at all.” Athos steps aside to let Aramis walk past him. “Not bed. Bath.”

Aramis’ face lights up in a radiant smile. “Only if you’ll join me.”

~*~

Candlelight smears long, dancing shadows on walls and ceiling as Athos sinks into the warm water and the heat of Aramis’ embrace. He lies back and relaxes into Aramis’ body, into the easy grip of hands around his stomach and chest. The swirl of water as it laps at his skin is like small, tender kisses ghosting over his body, and he’s hot and cold and shivery all at once. Aramis’ hands roam over his skin, from thighs to neck, in lazy strokes, leaving prickling trails in their wake. This is, Athos realises suddenly, following the thread of the Faustian motif, this is it, the fair moment that he wishes would linger on. But it won’t, of course it won’t. The bathwater will turn cold, for one.

Aramis’ fingers dig into his shoulder and Aramis sighs in his ear, massaging Athos’ muscles with firm fingertips. Athos rolls his head into the crook of Aramis’ neck to give him better access.

“Do you think,” Aramis says calmly. “Do you think you don’t deserve this?”

Athos’ entire body tenses, but Aramis continues to touch him as if he didn’t notice anything. “Because I do, too,” Aramis says. “We shouldn’t-” he brushes an open-mouthed kiss against Athos’ jaw. “We shouldn’t let that deter us.”

“Deter us from what?”

Aramis smiles and kisses his neck, a hot pressure of lips and teeth.

“You really are a reprobate,” Athos says coolly, in a desperate attempt not to give in too easily. The water around him is so hot, how is it possible for his skin to tauten and shiver like this? Beneath him, he feels Aramis getting hard, and he groans when Aramis’ hand trails over his cock, barely skimming it.

“I think we’ve already established that I am,” Aramis says. “Doesn’t mean that I’m wrong.” He removes his hand from Athos’ chest and reaches for the wine glass on the floor. The way his body flexes underneath him, lifting them both, reminds Athos once again of how physically strong Aramis can be if he wants to. There is a dizzying delight in the awareness that he can harness that strength and make Aramis succumb to him. 

Aramis hands Athos the glass. It is fogged and the wine is deliciously cold in his mouth, and then Aramis cups his face and kisses him over his shoulder, sucking traces of wine off Athos’ tongue. As Athos leans forward to put the glass away, Aramis follows his movement. His hands are on Athos’ hips, travel up his flanks, and his mouth alights on the nape of Athos’ neck, assaulting the nerve ends there with the scratch of teeth and beard. Athos grips the edge of the bathtub and bites down on a moan.

“Kneel up,” Aramis whispers with a slick slide of lips against Athos’ back. It’s impossible to disobey, and he pulls himself up and clambers to his knees; behind him, Aramis does the same. Athos turns his head to kiss him again in an awkward collision of lips and teeth, and they’re both panting already, with lust and with anticipation. Aramis kisses the line of his jaw, down his neck, pinches Athos’ shoulder muscle with his teeth, and licks down his spine. A firm hand at the base of Athos’ skull motions him to lean forward. He nestles his face into the cradle of his folded arms and bites his lip, blinking against the water that dribbles down from his hair and into his eyes. When he bends his head a little more, he can see his own cock. It’s fully hard already, and he’d love to touch himself. But not only is he too languid to move, he also expects Aramis to touch him soon, the way he always does, tenderly and confidently at the same time, and he’s determined to ride out this shiver of anticipation to the end. Aramis moves behind him, but he never takes his hand off the back of Athos’ neck, not even when he reaches across and picks up the wine glass again. In the next moment, an icy rivulet runs down Athos’ spine, making him jump and gasp, and it’s followed by the pressure of Aramis’ mouth. He gasps again when he realises Aramis has trickled the wine on his back and is licking it off his skin.

Down and down he licks, and his hand around Athos’ hip tightens, pulling him up. His tongue then dips into his arse, and Athos jolts forward with a strangled moan. The slippery pressure against his arsehole is almost too much, and Aramis doesn’t give him time to breathe. He isn’t handling him gently, not like the last time. He’s forcing his tongue into Athos in shallow thrusts, and Athos feels fucked open and raw, and he spreads his legs wider for Aramis, desperate for more. This is at once too much and not enough. His body needs more than this fine teasing. Athos lifts his head off his arms and his eyes fall on the heap of discarded clothes on top of the washing machine. He grabs his scarf from the pile and turns around, splashing water everywhere and almost upsetting Aramis.

Aramis is staring up at him with huge eyes. Athos cups his chin, kisses him hard on the mouth, and pulls back just as abruptly, wrapping the scarf around Aramis’ eyes. “Stay there,” he growls and gets to his feet. He tilts Aramis’ face up with one hand under his chin and drags his cock over his neck and cheek to his lips.

Aramis opens his mouth.

Aramis opens his mouth, and Athos thrusts in, hard yet shallow, because even though his body wants to fuck itself into this slick heat, he doesn’t want to hurt Aramis. He pulls back and thrusts in again, and Aramis sucks him in hungrily, scraping his teeth over his skin just so, and Athos’ knees buckle. 

Aramis pulls back. “Can I touch you?” he asks, hovering his hands around Athos’ hips, and the steamy heat rising between them burns Athos’ skin. He nods, remembers that Aramis can’t see him, and whispers: “Yes.”

The hands on his hips steady him. He watches Aramis’ thumbs dig into his stomach, and he watches his cock disappear in Aramis’ mouth, all the way in, and it glistens wetly when he pulls out. Aramis tilts his head upward and sideways, and Athos taps the exposed side of his neck with his nails; that long line of tendons and muscles; he’d love to sink his teeth into it and bite down until Aramis would beg him to stop.

But Aramis wouldn’t, would he? Aramis would accommodate his desires the way he always does. Athos withdraws from his mouth completely, grabs his hair and whispers: “I’m going to fuck your mouth.”

Aramis flashes a quick smile. “Green,” he says.

It doesn’t take long; a few hard, deep thrusts that surely must hurt, and Athos curses. He’s pulling out even as he’s coming in Aramis’ mouth, and he watches the last spurts spatter all over Aramis’ neck and chest. He is on the verge of collapse, but Aramis’ hands are still on his hips, anchoring him, and Aramis gets up, pulls Athos close and kisses him. He pushes Athos’ mouth open with his lips, and Athos moans, and then splutters. But Aramis is holding his head in place, and he chokes and swallows his own come that Aramis has forced into his mouth with his tongue.

“You bastard,” he gasps when Aramis lets him go. He leans with his forehead against Aramis’, still struggling to catch his breath.

“Mmh…” Aramis hums into his hair. “Total reprobate.” He kisses Athos on the temple. “Come on, let’s get out. The water’s getting cold.”

Aramis pulls off the makeshift blindfold and tosses it aside, whilst Athos looks around, wrapping a blanket around his hips and taking in the wet mess around them. “We should-” he says, and in the next moment the air is knocked out of him as Aramis pushes him backwards against the door and kisses him, hard and urgent, holding him in place with his body.

“Leave it,” he growls between kisses. “Go to bed.” He tugs Athos’ lip with his teeth and drags his nails down his sides. “Wait for me there.”

Athos is not surprised to see Aramis hold the rope when he comes in. Aramis stops in the door, takes in the sight of Athos sprawled where he collapsed bonelessly on the bed, and lowers himself on the mattress beside him. “I brought dinner,” he says in a conversational tone, as if he hadn’t just rutted against Athos up against the bathroom door. “I bet you haven’t eaten anything today.” He glances at Athos and reads the answer in his face. “I thought so.”

Athos rolls on his stomach and picks up his chopsticks. “No soy sauce?”

Aramis shrugs. “Better not. We’d only make a mess.”

“We’ll make a mess anyway,” Athos mutters. 

Aramis laughs and kisses him on the shoulder. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” Athos smiles, unable to help himself. 

“Did you talk to Porthos?” he asks all of a sudden.

Aramis raises his eyebrows. “In general? Or about anything specific?”

“About his plans.” Athos taps his chopsticks against the base of Aramis’ throat, the narrow white scar there. “To work for the Bonnaires.”

“Oh, that.” Aramis smiles, rubs his throat, rolls on his side and props his head up on his hand. “Porthos is not at risk. Not from Maria Bonnaire.”

Athos shakes his head sceptically.

“No, really. He’s not. She wouldn’t go after someone like Porthos, and he wouldn’t be interested. He likes women who are good for him. Wholesome women.”

“Unlike you.”

“Unlike me.”

“Well, at least you are aware of it. That’s something,” Athos says.

“Of course I’m aware of it. I’m not a complete idiot. I just-” he shrugs, grinning, “can’t help myself.”

“Like a moth to a flame, is it?”

“Precisely.” Aramis’ grin deepens, and Athos picks up the unspoken challenge. 

“How unwholesome do you think I am, then? On a scale between, say, Adele and-” _Anne_ “…Maria Bonnaire?”

“You’re in a league of your own,” Aramis says silkily.

Athos snorts with laughter. “You don’t have to smooth-talk me.”

“I’m not. You are.” He shifts closer and brushes his fingers over Athos’ hair. “You are a mess, obviously, but,” he smiles, “you’re an artistic mess.”

“Good grief,” Athos says, remembering his frustration that Aramis never talked to him about this, about them, when it all started. He’s talking to him tonight, handling what could easily escalate into an emotional minefield in a charming and lighthearted manner. And yet, Athos feels the enormity of what passes between them lurk behind Aramis’ flippant words. He doesn’t want to say anything for fear that he’d spoil it with his inability to keep it light. Instead, he leans across and kisses Aramis on the mouth, pouring everything into this one kiss and willing him to understand. The wasabi on Aramis’ lips and tongue makes his mouth prickle. He’s glad about the sharp sting that comes with the kiss; it reminds him of something he is more and more in danger of forgetting: that the switch inside his head may flip at any time and that he will push Aramis away if it does. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says when they break apart.

“I know.” Aramis takes his hand and strokes it with his thumb. “But, you know, I can take pain.”

It’s the matter-of-fact tone more than anything that makes him choke on his own breath. Athos flings himself at Aramis and kisses him, tears at him with his teeth and swallows every desperate moan that his assault elicits. He relishes the way Aramis fights back, the way he pushes into his kisses and grinds into his body, and when Aramis rolls them both over, he groans and arches into Aramis’ in turn.

Aramis stills, cupping Athos’ face with one hand. With the other, he’s pinning Athos’s hand to the mattress. His hair hangs around his face in wet strands and his eyes bore into Athos’ soul.

“What now?” Aramis whispers. His words are like an echo of Athos’ own from all those weeks ago, and Athos shivers at the mere memory: Aramis’ head heavy against his arm and Aramis’ fingertips on his wrist. They’ve come so far since then, and yet his body still remembers that one moment when Aramis imprinted himself on his skin.

Athos raises his hand and pulls Aramis down into a kiss.

“Whatever you want.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Playtime_ is a film by Jacques Tati from 1967.
> 
> And with this, I'm concluding the series. For now at least. I will probably revisit the 'verse when I'm in the mood for Aramis/Athos PWP, as this is a conveniently established setting. However, I don't want to drag it all out and turn it into a soap opera. There is no clear-cut ending to their story, and this feels like they've reached a point where they will be okay.
> 
> Thank you for reading - and for commenting!


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